I tried to park my foot in my sock
but couldn’t manage the 90-degree bend.
So I backed out of that narrow stall
and eased in more slowly. Still nope.
I don’t recall the morning sock routine
being this difficult when I was ten.
I’d either ditch the socks all together
or just pull them violently on.
A decade ago I was still balancing,
precarious, one foot at a time,
and pulling the sock slowly up
because, you know, balance and old age.
Not that my equilibrium is now shot,
but after bad knees and sprained feet
I am not particularly anxious to add
cranial hemorrhage to the inventory.
I perch on the edge of the bed I have made
at look at the sleepy sock in my hand.
Most things are not the end of the world,
but this one begins to feel quite like it.